


The Eloquence of Roses

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Blow Jobs, Bubble Bath, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Roses, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: Valentine's Day is only two days away, and Sherlock is prepared. He noticed John eyeing a decorated window the previous day when they were out, his eyes lingering on the atrocious heart decoration a moment too long for Sherlock to believe that it was a coincidence. Sherlock looked straight ahead and hid a smile, feeling almost giddy at the thought of his surprise. For the first time in his life, he looks forward to the holiday.In the words of John Watson, baths are good. Sherlock knows this. What could be more perfect for their first Valentine's Day?





	

Sherlock almost doesn't notice until it's too late. The events of the past weeks have occupied him thoroughly - a case, John, more cases, _John_ \- and so it's only when he looks at the calendar one night that he realises with a start that it's merely a week until the fourteenth.

It's his and John's first Valentine's Day as a couple. Sherlock can't say that he ever much cared for the holiday - rather the opposite, considering the capitalistic circus it is being turned into by the media. Then again, he never had someone to celebrate it with before. Certainly not someone like John, who isn't just someone but _the_ one _._

John is very much a romantic at heart, as Sherlock has learned first-hand since they got together. He surely wants to celebrate Valentine's Day. He may not plan anything, thinking that Sherlock doesn't care for the occasion, but Sherlock knows that he would enjoy it.

He turns away from the calendar and slumps on the sofa. Folding his hands beneath his chin, he stares at the ceiling in deep thought.

It can't be over the top, or John isn't going to take him seriously. He absolutely can't think that he is making a joke out of it. His relationship with John is the most valuable thing in Sherlock's life; he would _never_ make a joke out of it.

Something simple but effective, then. Something he won't see coming, but will be happy about. Dinner seems to be a given. Sherlock can't remember the last time they didn't have dinner together, and they go out on a regular basis, so this one must be special somehow. Not expensive, John doesn't care for these things and he would fuss about the cost of their food the whole evening. No, rather something like sentimental value.

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitches as it hits him. Of course, it has to be Angelo's. John always enjoys going there. He nods to himself - that's settled.

What else? Sherlock knows that gifts are customary. He turns his mind to John's belongings, trying to think of anything he might need. He comes up with nothing. John is a practical man. He doesn't have much, but exactly what he requires. When he's in need of something he goes out and gets it. Sherlock supposes that he could buy him a book or some DVD of one of those shows he watches semi-regularly, as far as their busy schedule allows. He crinkles his nose. It's too impersonal. Nothing about that says _I got this for you because you're the love of my life._

Maybe something immaterial then. John used to be a soldier, he values the simpler things in life.

An idea pops into his head. Sherlock opens his eyes. He needs a confidante.

Mrs. Hudson opens the door after the third knock, drying her hands on her apron.

“I need your help,” Sherlock says in lieu of a greeting. She glances at his pyjama that he didn't bother changing out of and waves him inside.

“You better come in then, young man,” she says. “I just made tea.”

She puts a cup and a plate of biscuits in front of him before taking a seat. Sherlock eyes the biscuits. Ginger Nuts. His favourites. He knows that Mrs. Hudson always has an emergency package at home, following a few incidents during which her stock somehow ended up empty. She must think this to be serious if she voluntarily gives them up.

He takes one, devouring it in two bites. He already reaches for the second biscuit when Mrs Hudson says, “Well, what do you need my help with? Is John not home to assist you?”

“John's out,” Sherlock explains around a mouthful of biscuit, obediently swallowing it down at her disapproving glance before continuing. “And it's about him, so I can't very well ask him to help me with it.”

She hums. “You two didn't have a domestic, did you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Quite the opposite. We're very... well. I'm very happy. I think he is, too. And I'd prefer to keep it that way. Valentine's Day is next week, as you'll know. It's our first as a couple and I want to make it special. Not overdo it, just- have it be memorable.”

Mrs. Hudson's face lights up at his words. “Oh, Sherlock! That's so sweet of you. I always knew you had it in you.” She pushes the plate towards him. “Here, take another one.”

Sherlock doesn't need to be told twice. She beams at him as he chews, and he finds himself blinking at the table as he finishes.

“So.”

He folds his hands together. “Yes.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner. At Angelo's, where we went on our first night.”

She nods. “Of course. A good choice, dear. Very good. What about before dinner?”

“I haven't thought about that yet.”

“Well, whatever you do, you don't want to plan too much. You said you don't want to overdo it, so maybe just, say, a flower. A kiss, wishing him a happy Valentine's Day, and that's it.”

“Let him think that I didn't give it much thought and then surprise him with dinner reservations?”

“Exactly. He'll like that, your John. Now that you say it, you should definitely make reservations if you haven't already! No use waiting any longer, Valentine's Day is just around the corner after all.”

“Noted. I'm sure Angelo can arrange something for us in case he's already booked out.”

“Very good. Now what exactly do you need my help with?”

“With what I want to do after dinner.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Well. Parts of it. I've been thinking about what kind of gift John would like, and I've come to the conclusion that a bath would possibly be- good. He enjoys baths, as he's stated several times. And I realise they are generally considered to be romantic when... taken with one's partner.”

A warm tingle spreads in his stomach at the words. It's still so new, he's still getting used to saying it. It's not an unpleasant sensation.

Mrs. Hudson giggles. “Oh, Sherlock, you and your silly little pretence. We all know you're secretly a romantic, dear.” She pats his hand and, when he opens his mouth, nods towards the biscuits.

“There, take another one.”

Sherlock obeys.

“So you think it's a good idea? The bath?”

“I think it's a splendid idea. He does always go on about his baths, doesn't he? Even on that blog of his, your man. It's very thoughtful of you.”

“Good.” Sherlock clears his throat. “That's... yes. Good. I was thinking that- well. Roses are considered to be the most romantic of flowers, wouldn't you say?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Then perhaps a rose bath. You know, with... foam, and petals?”

“And candles,” Mrs. Hudson supplies, nodding along.

“And candles, lots of candles, many candles,” Sherlock confirms. He knots his hands together. “You think that's- good? He'll enjoy it?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, the smile plastered on her face so wide it must be hurting her. “He'll love it, I can promise you that. Especially if you're there to take it with him. It's not the biggest tub you have up there, but I do think you'll both fit, even with those legs of yours.”

Sherlock, suddenly self-aware, crosses his legs beneath the table.

“And mind you,” she continues, “it'll be all the cosier for it.”

“Alright. Definitely a bath then.” Determined to distract her from any thoughts about John and him in the tub together, which she is evidently still pondering if the smile on her face is any indication, he goes on, “I would like for it to be ready when John and I get back from Angelo's.”

She nods. “A real surprise. Nothing like waiting to ruin the mood.”

“Exactly. I would of course take care of everything beforehand, get some bathing essences, the roses, the candles. But if you could run the bath and arrange the candles once I text you, that would be marvellous.”

Mrs. Hudson covers his hands with hers, giving a gentle pad. “Of course, dear, don't you worry about a thing. I'll take care of everything.”

“Good. That's- good of you. Thank you.”

She just beams at him. “Now, I'm sure you've got everything planned out already, don't you?”

She leans in conspiratorially, and Sherlock nods. Reaching for another biscuit, he starts talking.

* * *

John is already back when Sherlock returns upstairs, but doesn't ask when he tells him that he's been visiting Mrs. Hudson. Of course he doesn't suspect a thing.

The next time he is out Sherlock calls Angelo, making a reservation for the two of them. He is, of course, delighted and promises him the best table. Next, Sherlock goes out to purchase a multitude of candles. He spends a good half hour in the shop, comparing different scents and questioning a shop assistant about the quality of the wax. He leaves with four big vanilla candles and twelve tea candles that faintly smell of lemon, just enough to mix with the vanilla when lit simultaneously, but not overlapping it, as the assistant assured him.

He stops at a florist's he once helped out on his way home, enquiring about the roses. Yes, they have red ones in large quantity. Yes, he had better place an order if he wants to make sure the correct amount is available on Valentine's Day. No, none of the flowers are treated with chemicals and yes, they are safe for using in baths. Sherlock leaves after ordering three bouquets, stopping by Mrs. Hudson's before he returns home.

Valentine's Day is only two days away, and Sherlock is prepared. He noticed John eyeing a decorated window when they were out yesterday, his eyes lingering on the atrocious heart decoration a moment too long for Sherlock to believe that it was a coincidence. Sherlock looked straight ahead and hid a smile, feeling almost giddy at the thought of his surprise. For the first time in his life, he looks forward to the holiday.

* * *

On the morning of the fourteenth, Sherlock is the first to wake up. He takes a moment to just watch John next to him, his face relaxed in sleep. His lips are slightly parted, his short hair an adorable mess on the pillow. He reaches out to brush his cheek, then thinks better of it and leaves the bed, careful not to wake him. He closes the bedroom door behind him as he pads into the bathroom to freshen up, then goes on to the kitchen to make tea.

John is still asleep when he returns, a steaming cup in each of his hands. Sherlock puts one down on John's bedside table before crawling back under the covers. He blows the surface as he waits for the tea to cool down, his eyes resting on John's body.

They have been sharing a bed for several weeks now, but the sight is still enough to make Sherlock's mind stop short. It's the normality of it, the utter domesticity that tugs on his insides, makes his heart beat faster in his chest.

The morning light continues to fall into the bedroom as he sits in silence. His cup is half empty when John stirs. Perfectly timed, Sherlock notes. His tea is at the perfect drinking temperature now.

“Good morning,” he says, keeping his voice low and quiet. John rolls towards him and blindly reaches for the closest part of Sherlock's body, which happens to be his knee.

“Morning,” he replies, his eyes still closed. “Mhh. You up?”

“Yes. I made tea.”

John's eyes flutter open. “Yeah? 's nice.”

Sherlock puts down his cup and brushes the hair out of John's forehead before pressing a kiss there. John hums.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” Sherlock murmurs. John blinks at him, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“To you, too,” he says, sounding a little more awake. They look at each other for a moment.

“The tea is on your bedside table,” Sherlock clarifies when he makes no move. John rolls over and pulls himself into a sitting position.

“Thank you,” he mumbles after taking a sip, letting out a content sigh. Sherlock watches him over the rim of his cup.

“You're quite welcome.”

They drink their tea in companionable silence, and when John goes to the bathroom they move to the kitchen.

It's usually John who makes breakfast for the two of them – or rather a very large portion for himself because they both know Sherlock will eat at least half of it, whether he's declined any food for himself or not – but today Sherlock joins him at the counter. John lifts an eyebrow but hands him a few eggs as he hums lowly. They prepare batter together, and Sherlock sets the table while John cooks their pancakes. When he returns to the cooker, he sees that John is making a slightly crooked, but definitely recognisable heart.

“This one's yours,” he informs him, deftly turning it around. Sherlock wraps his arms around John's chest from behind as the pancake fizzes.

“You're ridiculous.”

John chuckles. “Love you too.”

Sherlock's arms tighten around him before be abruptly lets go, grabbing John by the shoulders to spin him around for a kiss. He doesn't think that he will ever get used to these spontaneous, casual declarations of love. That is fine, though. He doesn't think that he wants to.

They break apart before Sherlock's heart burns, getting ready for breakfast. Their feet continue to brush as they eat. Sherlock saves his heart for last even though John tells him to eat it before it gets cold, and if he had to decide he would declare it the best one. Although it might just be John's smile that makes it better.

It is almost noon when Mrs. Hudson pays them a 'spontaneous' visit.

“Huhu,” she calls after an enigmatic knock, peeking inside before she enters upon seeing them both in their respective chairs. “Happy Valentine's Day!”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and John adds, “To you too, Mrs. H.”

She graces him with a smile as she bustles around the kitchen, clearing the table almost automatically. “Have you two started the day well, then?”

“Like any other day, yes,” Sherlock says, keeping his voice bored.

“Only Sherlock decided to help with breakfast,” John remarks, giving him a smirk.

“Oh, that's lovely, isn't it? Well, it's good to see you two happy, especially today. At least you should enjoy the day...” She trails off, pretending to be busy with the table.

John lifts his eyebrows. “Why's that? Is something the matter with you?”

She shakes her head. “It's just my hip, dear. It's acting up a bit, is all.”

John frowns, immediately slipping into doctor-mode. Sherlock hides a smile. Mrs. Hudson really is smarter than she lets on. “Have you been in pain recently?”

“Oh, it's nothing.” She waves him off. “I've just not moved a lot these past few days. I should probably take a walk, I'm sure that'd help.”

“Maybe, yeah. Staying active is important.”

“I know, dear, I know. It's just so hard to pick myself up sometimes when there's no one to keep me company. You two are always busy as well! No time for your old landlady. Not that I blame you, of course.” She shakes her head. Sherlock sees right through her, but John, as expected, falls for it.

“Well.” He glances at Sherlock. “I suppose we can make some time for a walk if you want to go out now? Some fresh air is always good. What do you say?”

The last question is directed at Sherlock. He shrugs. “I don't care if you go, but I'm certainly not leaving the house for a walk.”

John huffs out something close to a laugh, then turns to Mrs. Hudson. “Alright, well, just let me get changed, yeah?”

“Of course!” She smiles. “Oh, that's so nice of you, young man. Just the two of us, it's been a while.”

“Too long,” John agrees. He gets up, throwing a look over his shoulder. “I think it's time we catch up on the gossip about this one, don't you think?” Sherlock huffs and he winks. “I'll be right down!”

Mrs. Hudson turns to Sherlock as the door closes behind him, biting her lip as she winks at him. Then she leaves, and John joins her soon after, but not without pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hair.

“Won't be long,” he promises. Sherlock, thinking of Mrs. Hudson's orders not to let him return too soon, gives an indifferent hum in reply.

He gets up to watch them turn towards the park through the window, then makes his way downstairs. Mrs. Hudson has given him a key to her flat – not that he couldn't break into it – and he lets himself in, going straight for the kitchen. The roses she has picked up for him this morning are waiting on the table and he wastes no time in getting to work, separating the petals from the stems and putting them into bowls with water to keep them fresh until the evening.

It occurs to him that he may have miscalculated the amount of petals needed when the second bowl is filled to the brim and he still has a bouquet to work through. Still, better too much than too little. He finishes his work and goes back upstairs, putting out the bathing essences and candles for Mrs. Hudson to find. He fills a sheet of paper with instructions, telling her precisely how much of what should be added when, as well as providing a sketch of the bathroom and the position of the candles. He would prefer to arrange them himself, of course, but the risk of John coming in before they leave is too high. He will just have to trust Mrs. Hudson to get it right.

He settles back on the sofa with his laptop, waiting for John's return. He arrives about ten minutes later, and Sherlock can hear him talking downstairs for a minute before he comes up.

“Hi,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket. Sherlock's gaze sweeps over his flushed cheeks.

“Cold?” he asks, and John nods.

“Freezing. But it's dry, so it wasn't too bad. Actually felt quite good, just walking and chatting for a while. No mad running around, chasing after criminals.” He gives him a pointed look. “You should have come.”

“Next time,” Sherlock agrees. John joins him on the sofa, folding his legs beneath him as he leans into Sherlock.

“Ugh.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “You're cold,” he complains, but John just grins and presses closer.

“What have you been up to, then?”

“Not much. I've been reading up on this fascinating study of maggots that were exposed to extreme-”

“Yeah, okay,” John says, holding up his hands in surrender. “That's so romantic of you.”

“Oh, you mean because it's Valentine's Day we have to spend the whole day doing romantic things?” Sherlock enquires, cocking his head. John regards him with a smile.

“Not the _whole_ day, but a little romantic mood won't hurt, will it now?”

Sherlock hums. “Well, in that case...” He leans in, waiting for John to close the distance between them with a kiss.

“Yeah?” he prompts when they part, nudging his cheek with his nose.

“You'll be pleased to hear that I made reservations for tonight.”

John sits back. “You did?”

Sherlock nods. “At Angelo's.”

John's face softens. He licks his lips, brushing a curl out of Sherlock's forehead with a smile. “I see. That was very... thoughtful of you. Very romantic.”

“Hmm. Are you surprised?”

“Yeah. I shouldn't be, though. You never stop surprising me.”

Sherlock's lips curl into a mischievous smile. “I don't plan on doing so any time soon,” he promises, and John, none the wiser, leans in to kiss him again. They end up snogging for a few blissful minutes, with John crawling over Sherlock to sit in his lap. He draws back when the kiss becomes too heated, blinking at him as he bites his lip.

“When do we have to be at Angelo's?”

“Seven. Still a few hours to go.”

“Hmm.” John squints at him. “Without wanting to wear you out too much, since I'd very much like to end the day with you in bed in true Valentine's Day fashion, I reckon that's enough time for a go, don't you think?”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Sherlock steals another kiss, letting his hands slip beneath his shirt. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” John agrees and pulls him up.

* * *  
Sherlock recognises their table as soon as they enter the restaurant. According to the occasion, Angelo has put a handful of heart-shaped confetti in the middle of every table, with a lit candle on top to set the mood.

Their table, however, has three candles, and heart confetti all over the surface.

“Wow,” John mumbles next to him. “Do you think that's-”

“Yes.”

They exchange a look before they burst into giggles.

“He's really outdone himself,” John remarks when he gets his breath back. Sherlock clears his throat.

“And this is just Valentine's Day. Imagine if one of us wanted to propose.”

They try to compose themselves when Angelo appears, greeting them both with a bear hug before guiding them to their seats.

“Special decoration for my favourite couple,” he says with a wink, and then leaves to get them the menus.

“Well, special times call for special measures or however the saying goes,” Sherlock remarks dryly as he scans the card.

“Is it special?” John asks with an amused glance at his face. “Didn't take you for the type to think so.”

Sherlock puts down the menu. “It's our first Valentine's Day as a couple,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Of course it's special.”

John lowers his card as well, smiling at him over the table. The light of the candles between them baths his face in a warm glow. “You're right,” he agrees. “It is special. Very special. I'm glad we came here, did I tell you? Thank you, for getting us a table.”

Sherlock brushes his ankle under the table. “You're welcome.”

John's smile widens, and he locks their feet as he lowers his gaze to the menu again. “I think I'll have the gnocchi, what about you?”

“I was thinking lasagna,” Sherlock replies. He looks over the card, then nods and puts it down. John is still reading, his tongue sticking out between his lips. He's clearly comfortable, the set of his shoulders is easy and relaxed. It is a very pleasant, very _appealing_ sight. Sherlock feels warm all over at John's obvious enjoyment of their date – now if he only responds like this to the rest of the evening, his plan will have been a success.

The food smells fantastic, as always. The best part by far though is when John's eyes fall shut as his lips close around his fork, and he makes a positively orgasmic noise. Sherlock swallows.

“Good?”

“Brilliant. Here, try it.”

Sherlock leans in and eats the gnocchi directly off the fork, never once taking his eyes from John's.

“Very good,” he agrees. Then he tries his own food, nodding in approval after the first bite.

“Also a good choice. Try?”

He holds out the fork, and John follows his example by letting Sherlock feed him the bite.

“God,” he mumbles around the food, “Angelo is an angel.”

Sherlock snorts. “Charming. I can see why people read your blog.”

John tries to glare at him, but ends up smiling into his wine glass.

Their dinner is relaxed and stimulating at the same time. The evening leaves Sherlock buzzing in the way only John can bring out in him. It is the way he smiles over the light of the candles, the way he alternates between funny remarks, serious conversation and comfortable silence, the way he enquires if he wants more wine, how his foot keeps brushing Sherlock's beneath the table. The way he asks, “What should we get for dessert? I feel like tiramisu, maybe.” The way them sharing a dessert is not a question, it's a given.

“Tiramisu is fine, but I want the cocoa one, not coffee.”

“Deal.”

Angelo would not be Angelo if he didn't bring them an extra-large portion, and they are both as full as they can get when they scratch the last bit of cream from the plate.

“This,” John says slowly, a hand resting on his belly, “was definitely one of your smarter ideas. Best Valentine's Day I've had in ages. Probably ever.”

Sherlock tries to give him a seductive look, but he knows that his wide smile is ruining it. He doesn't care all that much. “It's not over yet,” he reminds him.

The corner of John's mouth lifts. “I sure hope so,” he declares. Then he sits up, stretching his back. “God, I need the loo.”

“Do you want me to order anything else while you're gone, or shall we go home soon?”

“I don't think I can fit anything else, so unless you do...”

Sherlock watches him turn and head for the loo, not taking his eyes off him until the door falls shut. Then he sends a quick text to Mrs. Hudson before he can get back.

He gives him a smile when he returns, sitting up. “Ready?”

John glances at the menu. “Actually, I was thinking about ordering a cup of coffee or something after all before we-”

“Nope,” Sherlock interrupts him, pulling him up by the sleeve. “Come on, up you get. We're leaving.”

“What? What are you- What's gotten into you?” John asks, clearly perplexed as he lets himself be led to the door.

“We can't block this table all evening, John. There might be someone else who wants to have dinner here. Besides, if we stay longer we will eat more. Then we will be uncomfortable and you will start complaining.”

“How considerate of you,” John murmurs, giving him a scrutinising look as he slips into his jacket. “You know I can tell when you're being all mysterious, right?”

“No idea what you're talking about,” Sherlock replies haughtily. John pulls him down by his collar, gazing into his eyes with an amused smile playing on his lips.

“If you wanna get home, just say so, ridiculous man.” Sherlock's eyes close as he kisses him square on the mouth, brushing his lips in a warm, wet, wonderful slide.

“Mhh,” he hums when they part, blinking his eyes open. John is still close, his mouth just a breath away from his. “I want to get home.”

John smiles and kisses him again. “Come on then,” he says, holding out his hand. Sherlock takes it, squeezing once when he has laced their fingers together.

They walk home in silence, filled with anticipation and content smiles, taking in the impressions of the city around them. The air is cool, but John's hand in Sherlock's is a warm, comfortable weight. He lets go only reluctantly when they arrive at the front door. He allows John to enter first, glancing at Mrs. Hudson's flat as he goes inside. Her door is closed, and he can hear the radio from her kitchen. Good. She is back down already, everything is ready on time.

John climbs the stairs before him, stopping short on the top step. “What-”

His eyes are fixed on the small heap of petals in front of the door. He quirks an eyebrow, looking back at Sherlock with a questioning glance.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Go on. Open it.”

John's lips curve into a half-smile, but he goes on, carefully stepping over the roses as he opens the door. The flat is dark, but the light from outside is enough to illuminate the trail of petals on the floor. Sherlock takes his coat off while John goes inside, then puts a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

“May I?” he murmurs, and John lets himself be helped out of his jacket. He walks along the red line slowly, his gaze following the path to the bathroom door. A dim light falls through the gap, casting a golden glow over another pile of petals right before the door. John glances over his shoulder in a silent question. Sherlock nods, and he reaches for the handle and opens it. Sherlock steps behind him, intrigued to see what John is seeing. They both look at the image in silence.

Mrs. Hudson has done a wonderful job of decorating the room. The tub, steaming and full to the brim, is covered completely in petals, the rug of roses only interrupted by the odd bit of foam peeking out. The rim of the tub is covered in candles, casting a golden light over the scene. There are a few more on the floor as well, leading to the tub in a small path. The air is filled with the fragrance of the candles and the bathing essences, captivating and enchanting.

It looks better than Sherlock hoped it would. John, his lips parted in silent wonder, turns around.

“How did you-” His voice is hoarse. He shakes his head, looking back at the tub. “So that's why you were so keen on getting home. How the hell did you manage to put this together?”

“Mrs. Hudson assisted me,” Sherlock admits, and John chuckles.

“Ah. Of course, she would.” His voice sounds distracted, like his mind is elsewhere. He leans back into Sherlock, shaking his head again as he takes in the sight presented to him. Sherlock's heart beats fast in his chest.

“Is it... do you like it? I thought about what I should get you as a present, I know it's nothing special but-”

“It's incredible,” John cuts him off, turning around to face him. He cups his face with both his hands, brushing his thumbs over his cheekbones as his lips stretch into a brilliant smile. “You planned this for me. You sat down and thought about what I like, and you came up with this, and you went to Mrs. H to be your accomplice. You called Angelo's. You went out to buy candles and bubble bath and all these bloody roses. You probably even calculated the exact time Mrs. Hudson would have to run the bath for it to have the perfect temperature.”

Sherlock sucks in his lips, merely lifting his eyebrows in response. A quiet laugh escapes John. “Knew it,” he murmurs, and then he steps closer, pressing their bodies together, and tilts his head up to kiss him.

“It's perfect,” he assures him, his lips moving against Sherlock's as he speaks, and he can't help but lean in to kiss him again.

“Really? You like it?”

“I love it,” John says, beaming at him. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Sherlock. This is brilliant.”

“Alright.” Sherlock swallows. “You... you should get in then, before it gets cold.”

John chuckles, leaning into Sherlock for a moment, and nods.

“That would be a shame. No point in wasting this perfectly timed bath.” He takes a step back, pulling his jumper over his head. Sherlock takes it from him before he bends down, untying his shoes and peeling off his socks. The rest of his clothes follow, and then he steps to the rim of the tub.

“Wow,” he mumbles, taking one of the petals in hand to rub it between his fingers. “All real, huh?”

“Of course." Sherlock pauses. "I placed an order in case they would be sold out, and I made sure that none of them are treated. I wouldn't want to expose you to any chemicals.”

He rather hopes for this night to end in the bedroom, not in the emergency room because of an allergic reaction, thank you very much.

“Of course not,” John says softly. “You never do anything by halves.”

Sherlock watches as he gets in, taking a deep breath as the water encloses his limbs. “Too hot?”

“No, it's good,” John assures him, closing his eyes as he adjusts to the temperature. “Very good. It's perfect.”

“You like hot baths,” Sherlock points out, fidgeting with his hands as John sits back slowly. He smiles.

“I do. You always know what I like.”

Sherlock swallows, then kneels down. Mrs. Hudson has put two soft flannels next to the tub, and he takes advantage of the soft pad. John makes himself comfortable, closing his eyes as he takes a few deep breaths. He is almost completely covered by petals, clinging to his bare chest where the water stops.

“This is fucking amazing,” he sighs. Sherlock puts his arm on the rim of the tub, supporting his chin on it.

“I'm glad. I hoped you would enjoy it.”

“Of course I'm enjoying it. An amazing dinner in great company, a lovely first Valentine's Day with my handsome partner who also happens to be the love of my life, a romantic bath with the very same man by my side... I'm doing pretty good, yeah.” His eyes twinkle as he speaks, but his voice is soft. Sherlock leans in and John meets him halfway, catching his lips in a soft kiss over the rim of the tub.

“What about you?” he asks when they part. “Enjoyed yourself as well?”

“Of course, yes. I still do. I always enjoy myself with you, John.”

John beams at him. Sherlock is briefly reminded of a time when saying these things out loud was inconceivable. When he thought that saying them would ruin the fragile thing between them, that he was better off keeping inside what he felt for John.

The notion is unthinkable now.

John tilts his head. “Well, you could come and join the fun if you wanted to enjoy yourself even more...”

He drags his hand through the tub, breaking the surface of the water. Sherlock takes a few petals in hand, feeling the softness as he gazes at John.

“I could do that,” he says slowly, as if he has to consider the idea. When he doesn't show any signs of getting up, John huffs out a laugh. His eyes glint with the reflections of the candles surrounding them.

“What do I have to do to get you to come in here?”

“Well, a little incentive would be a good start...”

John chuckles, squeezing his hand once before he leans in to kiss him. Sherlock smiles and gets up to undress. He feels John's gaze on him as he sheds his clothes, and when he looks up to meet his eyes he smiles as well, watching him drop his clothes to the floor in a pile.

“How do you want me?”

“I think it's best if you get behind me, with your endless legs and all.”

Sherlock huffs. “Always with my legs...” he mumbles, but steps into the tub behind John, who has sat up and moved forwards a little. He lowers himself slowly, struggling with the narrow space and how he should arrange his limbs for a moment, but John moves his legs around a little and then settles back against his chest, and suddenly they fit perfectly. Well, relatively – it's still narrow and cramped and more a tangle of limbs than anything else, but it's _wonderful_. The weight of John's body resting on him, surrounded by the steaming, scented water almost makes Sherlock's throat close up. His eyes rest on John as he closes his arms around his chest, moving his hand up and down his arm. It's impossible in the heat, but he could swear that his touch leaves goose bumps in its wake.

“This is perfect,” John murmurs. Sherlock has to agree.

The flickering light of the candles breaks on the short strands of John's hair, more grey now than blond, and Sherlock drops kiss after kiss on his head, unable to stop himself once he's started.

“You're perfect,” he murmurs, burying his face in John's hair. John's hand tightens around his wrist.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he breathes out. “Thank you for this.”

Sherlock puts his finger under his chin and guides his head until he can kiss him. John's face is warm where he brushes against it, flushed by the hot water, and his skin smells of the bathing essences and roses and, deep underneath, like him. Sherlock wants to eat him alive.

He settles for licking a long stripe down his neck once they part, making him giggle as he darts away from the touch. He smiles to himself, burying his nose in the crook of his neck before leaning back.

John settles back against his chest, letting go of his wrist in order to twine their fingers together. His hand is small in Sherlock's. It fits perfectly. His thumb brushes over the soft skin on the back of his hand, over and over, until it almost becomes meditative. After a while John loosens his grip, instead moving his hand down Sherlock's arm. Drops of water run down his skin where he's touched him. He shifts his leg, letting their feet brush together.

It starts like this, with small caresses and minute shifts, skin touching and body parts sliding together. Sherlock's own arousal builds gradually, steadily filling him up until it spreads from his belly to his limbs. He sneaks a hand around John's waist, stroking the soft flesh of his belly before he goes lower. John's arousal is warm and firm in his hand, but he only gives it one stroke, then eases off again. There is no rush.

He brings both his hands around John's middle, caressing his skin with his fingertips. John lets out a content sigh. The water sloshes as he drops his hand into the tub.

Sherlock starts humming a low melody. His fingers drum a gentle beat onto John's stomach. He can feel the expansion of his belly as he breathes, hears the sound of his exhales over his own voice. Time seems to stand still. The water isn't cold, but definitely not steaming anymore when he decides that he has had enough of it. John is warm and heavy in his arms, and he would very much like to take this to the bedroom now.

“Do you want to stay in for a while longer?” he murmurs, dropping his voice. John shivers in his arms as his lips brush the shell of his ear.

“No, I'm going out with you,” he declares.

Sherlock drops another kiss on his head and starts to move. They buzz each other off, then step out of the tub onto the towels on the ground. Sherlock bends down to let out the water. When he straightens, John is holding out a towel to him.

“Thank you.” Sherlock ties it around his hips while John gets one for himself, and then he grabs a third one to dry their chests and arms. Sherlock dutifully lets him rub his skin until he is rosy all over, then dries his hair provisionally. John steps closer as he checks himself in the mirror. When Sherlock turns to look at him he takes the towel from his hands and tosses it aside, cupping Sherlock's face with both of his hands and kissing him. Sherlock's arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. Their towels rub against each other, barely staying up with their erections tenting them. The thought makes Sherlock chuckle. John, maybe guessing what he's thinking, joins in on it.

“I think we ought to take this to the bedroom,” Sherlock announces, kissing the tip of his nose, and John nods, grabbing him by the wrist.

“So do I. Come on then, you gorgeous man.”

Sherlock follows after him, touching his shoulder as they head for the door. When he turns around he pulls him closer again, diving in for a much more heated kiss. John groans against him, his fingers digging into his arm, and they stumble into the bedroom together.

Sherlock stops short when he opens his eyes, blinking at the bed. Their sheets were tangled when they left, all rumpled and twisted from their earlier activities. Now the bed is neatly made, with fresh sheets and plush pillows, and a handful of petals on the duvet. On their bedside tables is a candle each, casting a warm glow on the bed. John's lips part as he takes the sight in.

“Did you-” he begins.

“Haven't said a word to her,” Sherlock mumbles. John shakes his head.

"All those roses." He glances at him. "You must have gotten dozens."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up. "Roses _are_ the flowers of love," he says. "I trusted that the amount I chose would speak for itself."

"It does," John agrees. "Very eloquently." He sighs, his eyes returning to the bed. “Mrs. Hudson is a saint,” he declares, his voice as fond as Sherlock feels.

“I'm beginning to think so as well,” Sherlock agrees, tightening his arms around his chest. His body is cooling down after the hot bath, and the air of the room feels fresh on his skin. Mrs. Hudson was thoughtful enough to turn the heating on, but what he's craving is a different kind of warmth.

John turns in his arms, clearly overcome by the same desire, pressing up against his chest as he tilts his head up. “We have to thank her. She's outdone herself.”

“We will,” Sherlock says with a nod. “Maybe not just yet, though.” He leans in to brush their mouths together, parting his lips when John responds. They kiss until even their close proximity starts feeling not close enough, and John removes the towel around Sherlock's hips in a deft motion before shedding his own. They step over the tangle on the floor, pushing the duvet with the roses back before lowering themselves on the mattress. There are a few more petals scattered around the sheets, but neither of them cares.

Sherlock breaks the kiss to turn around, fiddling with the lamp. He only turns on the light on the bedside table, feeling like anything else would ruin the mood. John immediately pulls him back down, supporting himself on one elbow as he kisses him. His hands twist into Sherlock's hair, brushing loose strands out of his forehead. He draws back and looks at him, the corner of his mouth curving up.

“You're so good to me, do you know that? So bloody good, I don't tell you enough. I really love you.”

Sherlock reaches for his hand, raising it to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“I love you too. Always. Lie back,” he requests, and John does without question. Sherlock throws a leg over him, bracketing his hips with his knees. Gazing down at John's face, warm and soft and open, he leans in to place another soft kiss on his lips before tearing himself away. He could spend hours kissing John, has done so on multiple occasions, but he has other plans tonight. He wants to make John feel good, and he is not the only one between the two of them who is fully erect by now.

He nibbles along John's jaw as he kisses his face and neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark before he moves on to his shoulder, kissing the scar as he has grown accustomed to doing. John still lets out a quiet gasp every time. Sherlock hums at the sound. He kisses over his chest, stopping at each of his nipples for a good minute to give them his thorough attention, sucking and grazing them with the barest hint of teeth. Then he moves down his belly with a line of kisses, lingering at his navel as his tongue flicks out. He rubs his cheek against the softness of John's flesh, knowing that he will feel his evening stubble.

He smiles when John slips a hand into his hair, encouraging his ministrations. But Sherlock doesn't remain where he is for long. His goal is farther down, quietly demanding his attention. John's hip gets a final kiss before Sherlock slides down, nuzzling his groin as he wraps his fingers around his erection. The gasp John lets out at that is music to his ears. He gives him a firm stroke, and then holds his cock at the base. A single lick over the tip is all the warning he gives him before he lowers his head and takes him in inch by inch, his lips stretching around John as he goes as far down as he can.

“Fuck,” John curses, his hands curling into fists on the sheets, and Sherlock almost smiles around him. He eases off, licking a stripe up his cock with his flat tongue before he sinks down again, swallowing around the weight of John in his mouth as he tries to keep his breathing even. He draws back once more before he starts bobbing his head, falling into a rhythm that isn't quite slow, but not on the fast side either. Yet.

John shifts his legs, letting them fall open wider in what Sherlock suspects is a subconscious movement. His breathing speeds up as he swallows around him, gradually growing more ragged.

He keeps going at this pace, alternating his sucks and licks as he works him until he can taste John's precome prominently on his tongue. He loves getting to this point, can feel himself responding to having his taste in his mouth. He pulls off completely, playing with the slit at the tip before sinking down without preamble, swallowing him almost to the root. John lets out a string of incoherent sounds, filling Sherlock's head over his effort to keep his throat relaxed. His jaw is starting to hurt from the strain but he knows that John is close, and he is determined to push him over the edge.

“Oh god, Sherlock, that's it,” John gasps. Sherlock merely sucks harder in response, abandoning all finesse. John goes rigid beneath him within seconds. Sherlock swallows him down all the way to the root, giving a final suck before John comes, spending himself almost directly down his throat. Sherlock holds him in his mouth, waiting until his body melts into the mattress before he drags his lips all the way up his cock, letting it fall out of his mouth with an obscene sound. He swallows a few times, trying to get rid of the remaining taste as he crawls over him. He gets thoroughly distracted from it when John pulls him down, attacking him with hot, wet kisses. Sherlock groans into his mouth, canting his hips to rub them against John's body, desperate for some friction.

“Come here,” John mumbles, heaving himself up as he guides him flat on his back. “My turn now, love. Let me.”

Sherlock sprawls on the sheets. “With pleasure,” he breathes out, lifting his head off the bed as John crawls over him. He meets him for a sloppy kiss, bordering on filthy before he leans back, moving on to give the sensitive spots on Sherlock's neck his thorough attention. He knows precisely where Sherlock is sensitive, knows just how to tease him until he is gasping and writhing beneath him.

“John,” he says in something close to a whine, and John chuckles before he moves down Sherlock's body with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing his hipbone before he licks a stripe up Sherlock's cock. Sherlock moans, the stimulation at long last shooting through him like a spark. He makes an incoherent sound, and John hums before he holds his cock in place with his hand, deciding to bring his lips into it.

Sherlock lets out a hiss, and John, clearly encouraged, goes as far down as he can before he slides back up, picking up a rhythm that leaves no time for breaks. Sherlock's breath speeds up. He tries to look at John, tries to watch, but it's almost too much, the sensory information enough to flood him as it is. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, the only thing he registers being John's heat around him.

John seems to sense how close he already is. He has mercy, steadily driving him closer instead of drawing the teasing out. He spends minutes making him come undone, maybe seconds, possibly hours. Sherlock is too lost in the sensation to notice or care, his focus narrowed down to John's mouth, the sounds he is making, the weight of his body on Sherlock's own.

“John,” he gasps out in warning not long after, knowing that he is past the point of return. John pulls off, understanding the word for what it is. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut as he lets go, John's fingers wrapped around his cock, slick from his own saliva and Sherlock's precome. It only takes a dozen rough strokes, given with the exact firmness Sherlock needs, and he spends himself over John's hand. He is distantly aware of covering his own stomach with a few spurts, of his own crying out and John's breathless, encouraging sounds, but his mind is completely awash with the blissful pleasure pulsing through him.

He lets out a deep groan when he comes back to himself, releasing a deep breath through his lips. “John,” he murmurs.

“I'm here.”

John's hand slips away. Sherlock can feel him shifting, moving around.

“Don't leave,” he slurs, only half present as he recovers from the impact of his pleasure.

“Just going to clean you up, love,” John hushes him, angling for one of the towels on the floor. He wipes Sherlock's stomach and softened cock, then cleans his own hand before tossing the towel over the side of the bed. Sherlock watches him through heavy lids.

“Come here,” he asks, holding out his hands. John moves into his arms, returning the embrace as he snuggles against him.

“Alright?” he murmurs, and Sherlock nods.

John hums, the smile audible in his voice. “That was amazing, Sherlock. You're brilliant.”

Sherlock slips his hand into his hair, stroking the short strands softly. “I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.” He smiles. “It _was_ good, wasn't it? Very good.”

John glances up at him, blinking through his lashes. “It was perfect. Thank you for today. It was the best Valentine's Day I could have imagined with you.”

Sherlock puts his lips to his forehead, closing his eyes as he inhales deeply. “Well, I'm going to regret this next year when I have to step up my game,” he jokes.

John laughs. “I look forward to it.”

“Me too,” Sherlock says. He does. He already has some ideas, just flashes in his mind of something he's privately been yearning for. Maybe something involving another fancy dinner. A bit of music on the violin, something he composed, has written with John in mind. More roses. A question, allowing him to put a ring on his finger...

He doesn't have anything planned yet, but his stomach tingles with anticipation at the mere thought. There is a lot to think about, of course. Things to plan, details to consider. He has to make a plan for the day. He must speak to Mrs. Hudson.

But all that can wait. For now, he is happy with John in his arms, ringless but happy, and that's all he ever could have asked for.

He stretches, reaching the corner of the duvet with his fingers. He pulls the cover over them, rearranging the fabric until they're all wrapped up.

“Comfortable?” he asks, and John snuggles closer in response.

“Very. Might never move again, just so you know.”

“That's okay,” Sherlock says, a smile playing on his lips. He closes his eyes, letting the sleepiness tugging on him pull him under. “I don't think I would mind all that much if you didn't.”

“No,” John murmurs, his fingers curling around Sherlock's arm. “Don't think I would, either.”

* * *

John's arm is draped over Sherlock's chest when he wakes up. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, feeling nothing but the weight of his limbs and his warmth surrounding him. He turns his head, glancing at John's sleeping features. He lies so close that the short strands of his hair tickle Sherlock's nose. He hold his breath as he presses his lips there, careful not to disturb his slumber.

It's still early; the light falling through the window is bright and almost blinding. It's quiet in the room, quiet enough for Sherlock to be able to make out the small sounds John lets out as he breathes; in, out, a steady rhythm interrupted only by tiny huffs and little sighs are irregular intervals. Watching John sleep is endlessly fascinating to Sherlock, has been since the first time he was allowed to witness it, and the fascination still holds on. He doesn't think that he will ever get used to it.

He carefully turns onto his side. John shifts, his arm falling off Sherlock's chest, but he doesn't wake up. Sherlock waits until he relaxes again, keeping his own breathing even in hopes of not disturbing him further. He gazes at his sleeping face for a few minutes, feeling utter contentment and saturation in his limbs. It is peaceful, being like this. Just lying with John, turning his entire focus on him, his body, his breathing, his scent. It should be boring, but it isn't. It is anything but. It's the only time Sherlock feels like he can actually come down from the high he always seems to be on, with his mind working at all hours. This, this is quiet. Calm. Peace.

Unable to stop the urge, Sherlock reaches for John's face, brushing his cheek with his fingers. He withdraws as soon as he twitches beneath the touch, instead going on to his arm. He traces his skin with the tip of his fingers, treading lightly, trying to absorb the touch, the warmth he provides. He lightly rests his hand on John's hip, just looking, taking in, being.

Endless minutes have passed when his bodily needs move to the centre of his thinking. He decides to get up with a quiet sigh, disentangling his limbs from the duvet with care. He pads to the loo and freshens up a bit, deciding to brush his teeth while he's up.

It is a testament to his state of blissful and complete relaxation that it takes him almost half a minute to notice that something is off about the picture he's being presented with.

The tub is empty and clean, devoid of any petals whatsoever. He squints, then turns on his heels and heads for the kitchen.

The sight of two steaming cups of tea on the counter greets him. He blinks at the image, then gets closer to touch the cups. They are indeed still hot, they can't have stood there for long. Behind them is a thermos flask and a handwritten note. Sherlock picks it up, recognising Mrs. Hudson's elegant handwriting immediately.

_Good morning, boys,_

_I trust you had a good night? I took the liberty of cleaning up after you two this morning, I'm sure you have a few other things on your mind. I hope the tea is still hot when you get up, I made a whole flask in case you decide on a lie in. I think I heard one of you stirring just now, but I will leave you to it. Do come down for a visit once you're decent, though!_

_Mrs. Hudson_

His lips curve into a smile as he puts the note back on the counter. Mrs. Hudson really is a saint. He picks up one of the cups from the counter and takes a sip. It is, of course, on point, as she always makes it.

He thinks of her hip as he drinks, of her kneeling down just so John and he wouldn't have to clean up later. He shakes his head. He was thinking of flowers, but something much bigger than a simple bouquet is needed to express his gratitude and affection towards her. He has to consult John about this once he wakes up.

Sherlock smiles again at the thought. A shiver runs down his spine; it is cold out of bed and there is no reason for him to be standing here in the kitchen, when John is just in the other room. He picks up the second cup of tea, then makes his way back to the bedroom. John has rolled over, his lips slightly parted as his nose twitches. Sherlock sets down both cups on his bedside table, then crawls back under the duvet. He tries to move slowly, but John stirs anyway as he joins him, and it doesn't take long for him to blink his eyes open.

“Morning,” he mumbles, a smile blooming on his lips as his eyes settle on Sherlock. Sherlock leans in to give him a chaste kiss.

“Good morning. There's tea.”

John hums. “Really? You just gonna keep spoiling me now? Not that I'm complaining.”

“Not me, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock corrects. "I don't think there's anything that could stop her from spoiling us.”

John chuckles. Sherlock has the cup of tea ready to hand him when he sits up, then picks up his own.

“Thanks.” John closes his eyes as he swallows. He takes another sip, then blinks at Sherlock. “How long've you been awake?”

“Not long. I just got up and found the tea waiting on the counter.”

John hums, a smile playing on his lips. “What a service. So, any plans for the day?”

“I was thinking,” Sherlock says, carefully placing his tea on the bedside table, “that I would very much like to stay in bed with you for a while.” He turns, rolling over until he is snuggled to John's hip. John regards him with a smile.

“Tell you what,” he replies, bending down to press a kiss to Sherlock's hair, “give me five minutes to freshen up. Then I'll get a bit of toast for both of us, and we can stay here as long as we like.”

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh at the thought of John getting up, but the prospect of being able to stay in bed longer afterwards is enough to make up his mind.

“Hurry,” he sends him off, and John brushes his hand over his hair before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“John,” Sherlock says as he pads to the bathroom. John turns to look at him.

“Hm?”

“I love you. I just wanted to say.”

John beams at him. “Love you too, Sherlock. A lot.”

With that he disappears into the bathroom. Sherlock rolls over onto his stomach, sprawling on the bed. He buries his face in the sheets, trying to absorb the scent and warmth John left behind. It's not long before the sound of John bustling around in the kitchen starts to fill the air. Sherlock listens, and he smells the sheets that smell like them, and he knows that John is going to return soon, bringing with him breakfast and probably more than a handful of kisses. He rolls onto his back and can't help smiling up at the ceiling.

If every Valentine's Day goes this well, he thinks he may just have found his favourite holiday.

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my native language, if you spot any mistakes feel free to point them out! If there's anything you'd like to say, I'm very happy about comments :) 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!


End file.
